Chapter Twenty-Seven #2
Finally he stands from his place of worship and roots around in his discarded jeans.
I scoot up the bed and admire his punishing beauty.
Fine hairs from his chest thicken down to his groin.
The softly lit curve of his shoulder, the perfect arches of his feet.
Perhaps he was carved by some sculptor centuries ago and left in a wood.
I’d believe it. Maybe when he awoke as a real man, he was just as shocked as the rest of us.
When Tom turns back around, he’s splitting a small foil packet with his teeth.
“Oh, thank God,” I say, and then yank him back onto the bed and crawl on top of him.
His cock is as heavy as I remember, and just as long.
When I take him in my small hand, and see how he leaks over me, hot and sticky, a fresh gush of wetness pulses between my legs at the memory of his come down my throat.
“What is it?” he asks, a little breathless. His lips brush gently over the skin of my shoulder.
“Want you.” My voice catches, and I swallow. “Now.”
Tom rolls the condom on and I move to slide down on top of him.
“You should lie down,” he says, quiet. “It’ll be easier.”
The thought is sobering. But not enough to spook me. I lay down as instructed and allow Tom to cage himself over me. He kisses my forehead and then my eyelids and then my mouth.
Slowly, he nudges the head of his cock into me…and there’s just not enough room for him.
“You’re big.”
A tight, clipped laugh. “Yeah.”
He moves my knee a little and I arch up to make it easier for him. He pushes in, and I hold my breath against the intrusion. The sensation of fullness is perfect—better than anything I could have fathomed—but also it’s only getting tighter and he’s not even halfway there.
His pale skin is flushed. “Am I hurting you?”
“No.” I shake my head, hair clinging to my neck with sweat. I brush my fingertips over his cheekbones. They’re taut with worry.
Another inch. It’s not painful, just very snug. A dull discomfort, as my body stretches to accommodate all of him inside of me. He drives in a fraction more and I can’t hide my wince.
Tom freezes. I can feel his muscles tense, his shoulders flexing under my hands. He moves to withdraw and I clench around him. “Don’t stop,” I beg. “I want to feel you.”
“Clementine.” He inhales sharply. “I’m fuckin’ splittin’ you in half.”
“I like it,” I say. “Keep going.”
Tom groans as if he’s being strung up on a medieval rack.
I almost feel bad for him, but cannot bring myself to end this.
When he pumps into me a bit deeper, I don’t even mean to cry out the way I do.
He brushes his mouth over my wet lower lip in answer.
“Shh.” He thrusts in just an inch more. “You’re okay. ”
He keeps swirling his fingers over my clit, and tipping his cock up to hit that spot inside of me in little nudges and eventually I can feel myself loosening up.
His eyes, and the warmth in them, help. His thumb grazes my upper arm as he holds himself over me, so careful, so dedicated to my pleasure, my comfort, and with all that rapturous evergreen—something blooms in my chest.
He’s seated fully in me, perhaps not to the hilt, but enough that I can hear the indecent, wet noise of ease. Tension flees my body and I wrap my legs around his back to sink him deeper.
“Careful, love,” he warns.
“I can take it.”
He leans down to groan against my throat and fucks me harder. His hand finds a fistful of my hair. He doesn’t pull, just holds it as he barrels into me. “Like that?” he asks against my sweat-misted skin.
It’s all I can do to nod. Just like that.
There is a liquid, burning heat blossoming low in my stomach, spilling out across my limbs. My fingers claw at the sheets, hoping it’ll anchor me to whatever plane we’re currently on. I’ve lost track. I’ve transcended.
“Not yet,” he says, his breathing heavy. I can’t tell if it’s a plea or a command.
“But I’m so close.”
Torturous, brutal bastard that he is, Tom stops his pounding completely until he’s just holding himself inside me, my walls clenching and clamping around him, pushing at the edge of my orgasm.
“I can’t watch you. I’ll—” He closes his eyes. “I don’t want it to end,” he admits. “I’d keep you in this bed…keep you like this, around me”—he flexes his hips just a little, as if it can’t be helped—“for days, if I could.”
“You can keep me however you’d like,” I tell him.
It makes no sense, I know, but I can barely hold the words back.
I want to tell him he can have every inch of me, every minute that I’ve got, for as long as he’d like.
That I’ll move into this bed, in this West Village hotel, and sleep in these sheets for the rest of my life so long as he’s here with me, making me feel the way I do right now, the way I did all day by his side.
The pressure that had been bubbling up inside of me is beginning to feel like a wave of raw emotion.
My throat tightens as I tell him, “I’m yours. ”
A low noise catches in his throat. He picks up speed and the pleasure knocks the wind right out of me.
My body spins out into something stratospheric.
It’s so strong it rocks me into some kind of orbit.
I’m gasping for air, wrenching my hands in the bedsheets, shoving Tom’s hand from my clit when I’m sure one more stroke will break me.
Tom comes, too, groaning my name over and over again. Choked on each syllable, cursing as he does. Fuck, Clementine. Fuck. His hips snap, his heart races above my own, and then he slumps over me, heavy and scorching-hot to the touch, limbs slack.
When I can think in actual words again, Tom’s already rolled off me and tossed the condom. He lies back down across from me with his head at the foot of the bed on the one remaining pillow we haven’t launched to the floor.
The view is nothing short of divine: Thomas Patrick Halloran, gorgeously naked, sprawled on his side, resting on an elbow.
His legs are longer than the king bed allows, and he tucks his knees in a bit to make space.
His entire, massive body of lean muscle and pale skin is glistening with a fine dusting of sweat and dark, curled hair.
His mane is as Tarzan-unruly as ever, a mess around his shoulders and down his back.
And those eyes: deep green like damp grass. Fixed on my face like I’m something all too precious to him.
“That was…” I’m trying to cut through the energy coursing between us, but I might’ve been wrong about human words returning to me. “I shouldn’t be surprised,” I finally say. “You’re excellent at everything.”
Tom tips his head back in that exhilarating laugh.
“I can’t bowl for shite,” he says. “I don’t exercise.
I’ve the social battery of a Nokia from two thousand and ten.
” That wrenches another grin from me, which he seems to like.
“And as you pointed out at dinner, I’m not winnin’ any medals for romantic stability. ”
“You always do that.”
To my surprise he doesn’t ask, Do what? Nor does he balk at my bluntness—he never seems to. Tom only pulls me toward him by the ankle and squeezes the corner of my foot until I purr. “It’s how I was raised. A country-wide affliction, in fact.”
Somewhere in Tom’s discarded jeans, his phone buzzes again. Muffled this time, under layers of clothes and sheets.
“You sure you don’t need to get that?”
Halloran shakes his head. “I’m off the clock.”
“So being Irish means you can’t admit how talented you are.”
“I’m proud of the albums I’ve made, I can say that. I’m immensely fortunate. I’m just not after complimentin’ myself. Neither are you,” he says softly, before pressing his lips to the top of my foot.
“I am, too.”
His lips travel to my calf. As he lifts my leg I remember how thoroughly naked I am and pull the sheets over me, but he’s not staring anywhere but my eyes. “Do it, then.”
“I am talented,” I admit, less shy than I expect to be. “I can sing.”
“That’s good,” he encourages. “Keep going.”
I roll my eyes. “Tom, this is—” Before I can say silly his lips have found the back of my knee and I sigh so hard I cough. Sexiness incarnate, I am.
But Tom isn’t fazed. “Come on, love, don’t stop.”
My head lolls back into the pillows as he trails that mouth up my thighs dangerously slow. “I’m…good at—at performing. I—”
Tom’s reached the white sheet over my stomach.
He’s caged over my abdomen like a creature on the hunt.
I’ve never wished to be prey so badly. As if in a trance—entirely unwilling to release his mouth from my skin even for the briefest of moments—he uses his teeth to pull the sheet aside and mouths up my ribs and to the side of my breast. He suckles the skin there until I weave my fingers into his thick curls.
He smells like after rain and my own lilac perfume, which releases something wickedly animalistic inside of me.
“Does it turn you on,” he murmurs against my bare skin, “knowing how hot I get just breathin’ you in?”
I nod my head feverishly. “Mhm.”
He kisses my neck and sucks beneath my ear until I whine. He doesn’t stop, so I resort to rubbing myself against his thigh like a dog in heat.
“Atta girl,” he praises. “Take whatever you need.”
“You,” I say, pulling him up toward my mouth. “I need you .”
While we kiss Tom nudges my knees apart and I open for him like a bud. With effort, he pulls himself away from my mouth to slink between my legs. His tongue drags once across my low stomach until I can feel my own slickness drip out of me. “ Tom ,” I beg.
“My sweet girl,” he murmurs before his mouth finds my clit again.
The noise I make is untethered. My nails pull feathers from the down comforter bunched around us. Pleasure rocks my body and I teeter on the edge of a third orgasm I hadn’t even realized was building.
Until a frantic knock sounds at the door.